


Hang On, Kid

by 221BroadwayIron



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Crutchie Gets Soaked, First Meetings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jack Kelly is a good brother, Stubborn Crutchie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BroadwayIron/pseuds/221BroadwayIron
Summary: He scooted back so that he was leaning against the crumbling brick wall, angrily scrubbing tears off his dirty face. He stopped when he saw Jack looking and instead reached instinctively for a wooden crutch lying discarded on the ground.“What?” he snapped at Jack. “Ain’tcha neva’ seen no crip before?”----------Or, Jack sticks his nose where it probably doesn’t belong and gains a little brother from it.
Relationships: Crutchie & Jack Kelly
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Hang On, Kid

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several years ago, so it's probably not my best writing, but I still think it's cute. Hope you like it!

Jack Kelly meant to ignore the alleyway scuffle, he really did. It was late enough already, he still had half of Manhattan to walk through before he got to the Lodging House, and Butch had warned him not to be late again… Now he was going to skin him alive when he finally made it back. Maybe they’d already be locked up for the night and he’d have to sleep on the street. The thought made him shiver in protest.

So Jack put his head down and forced himself to keep walking down the road. It was probably just a couple of street kids anyways. They were always fighting about something.

A cry rang out, followed by several gasping pleas. Geez, who was he kidding? Jack never could stand to see anyone getting soaked without trying to help. He dropped his last few papers at the entrance to the alley and waded in.

“What’s goin’ on here, fellas?” Jack called.

He was right, it was a couple street rats, pickpockets probably. Jack couldn’t make out the face of the guy on the ground getting soaked, but the other two had the pinched, mean, hungry look of kids who wrestled the streets of New York everyday for survival without even the meager income that came from selling papers or shining shoes.

One boy, the one with his fist pulled back to punch the kid on the ground, glanced over at Jack.

“Jus’ havin’ usselves a bit o’ fun. Wanna join?” he sneered.

“Nah,” replied Jack, quickly spinning the first story that came to mind. “Tha’s my brudda, y’know, an’ I’se rather yous left ‘im alone.”

“Well, why don’tcha make us?” the other one shot back, rising onto his toes to challenge the newsie.

_Why can’t I just stay outta these things?_ Jack groaned to himself as the street boys advanced toward him. He hadn’t been practicing his fighting with the older newsies for nothing, though. After a few solid hits, the street rats vanished around a corner, and Jack could turn to the boy on the ground who had been getting beat up.

He'd scooted back so that he was leaning against the crumbling brick wall, angrily scrubbing tears off his dirty face. He stopped when he saw Jack looking and instead reached instinctively for a wooden crutch lying discarded on the ground.

“What?” he snapped at Jack. “Ain’tcha neva’ seen no crip before?”

“They get’cha bad, kid?” Jack asked in a quiet voice. His eyes raked over the scrawny blonde boy from a slugglishly bleeding scrape on his cheek to the way one of his legs was twisted and shorter than the other.

“I’se fine,” the boy said roughly, trying to stand. Even bracing himself against the wall and his crutch, it took him several tries to rise to his feet; and even once he did, he still leaned back subtly against the wall for support.

“You ain’t—” Jack began, but the kid cut him off.

“I’se _fine_ , and I don’ need ya help or nothin’.”

Jack studied him some more, thinking. Although he was dirty and skinny, he didn’t have that look that characterized most guys who lived on the streets. “You’se got a home, kid? Or a job?”

The kid blatantly ignored Jack’s first question. “I’se sure I’ll be findin’ work any day. Maybe even tomorra’. Place like New York, y’know…” 

The older boy snorted. Based on the skinniness of the kid, he’d been telling himself that same thing for a month at least. 

“Listen—” Jack tried again, but the boy with the crutch cut him off just like the last time.

“I don’ need help.”

Jack stifled the urge to roll his eyes. This kid was stubborn and _very clearly_ did need help. He decided to try another angle.

“Hey kid, how old are ya?” he asked. He crossed his arms over his chest; it was getting cooler as the sun disappeared from the sky and the breeze picked up.

“Eight.”

Jack snorted again. “Ain’t. _I’m_ nine an’ no way you’se only a year younger than me. I’se known four-year-olds bigga’ than you.”

The boy wouldn’t meet his eyes, face in what could almost be described as a pout. “ _Fine_ , six.” He crossed his arms too. Jack couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or if he was just trying to look tougher.

“Younger’s better, y’know.” The kid wrinkled his nose at him, looking unconvinced. “Younger means ya sell more papes. Shoot, kid, you oughta be a newsie. You’se little, you’se cute, _an’_ you’se gotta bum leg. That’s a jackpot. You wanna be _my_ partner? Race decided he wants ta sell in _Sheepshead_ , an’ no way in _heck_ is I draggin’ all my papes ova’ there every day.” Jack paused. “Ya gotta name, or is I gonna hafta keep callin’ ya ‘kid’?”

“Crutchie.” His voice had lost its hard edge, and he looked up at Jack with wide green eyes. “I could really be a newsie an’ sell wit’ you?”

“Course, kid,” Jack laughed. He spit on his hand and shook it with Crutchie. Then his voice turned serious. “But you’se gotta come ta the Lodgin’ House wit’ me. That’s where all the newsies in ‘Hattan stays, ‘less they got folks. What d’ya say, Crutch?”

Hesitantly, Crutchie nodded and Jack grinned. “Well, c’mon then.”

When Crutchie didn’t move, Jack turned back around. “Means you gotta get off a that wall, y’know,” he said. Even in the half dark he could still see the blush that started in Crutchie’s cheeks and crawled all the way out to his ears.

“It’s just that… they got— got…” he stammered.

“They’se soaked ya pretty good?” Jack supplied when the boy seemed to run out of words. Crutchie nodded, once again refusing to look up at Jack. The newsie knelt down next to him.

“You’se safe now, you knows that, right? Ain’t nobody goin’ ta mess wit’ the great Jack Kelly, ‘cept that’s probably just ‘cause Butch’d soak ‘em real good. But don’ tell nobody that.” When he didn’t get the laugh out of Crutchie that he’d been hoping for, Jack carefully reached over and slid an arm around the boy. Even as Crutchie nodded in response to his question, Jack could feel how badly he was shaking. 

“Here,” he said, pulling the cap off his own head and plunking it down onto Crutchie’s messy blonde hair. It tilted to one side and slipped over the boy’s eyes. He had a small smile on his face as he reached up to adjust it. “You take care a that for me, and I’ll take care a you.”

Jack grinned at Crutchie in his too big cap and hoisted him up onto his back, taking up the crutch in one hand and passing it over his shoulder for Crutchie to hold.

“Hang on, kid,” Jack said softly. He could feel the little boy’s head leaning tiredly against his shoulder. “We’ll be home soon.”

* * *

Soon, though, was a relative term, and Butch certainly gave Jack an earful about his definition when he came stumbling through the door of the Lodging House many hours late and toting a small, bedraggled child.

Crutchie quickly grew wide awake and wide-eyed at the commotion and all of the other boys. He pressed close to Jack’s side the entire time, but he’d scarfed down his meager bowl of supper like it was the first meal he’d had in days (it was) and now lay wrapped in blankets on the roof across from Jack. His body was still, and Jack had assumed the boy was fast asleep until he heard the sound of a muffled sob. Pulling a blanket around his shoulders, Jack crept over to investigate.

Crutchie lay curled in a ball on his side. Tears ran across his cheeks and dripped down into his blanket, but he had shoved a fist into his mouth to keep Jack from hearing anything. Jack was on his knees in an instant, gently pulling the kid into his arms.

“What’s the matta’, Crutch?” he whispered, running a comforting hand through the boy’s bangs.

Mutely, Crutchie shook his head.

“It’s alright,” Jack told him softly, “you can tell me.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Crutchie stammered, “I-It’s just m-my leg… an’... an’ those boys… an’ just, it’s jus’...” He gestured weakly with one hand, not knowing the words to express his emotions. Jack hugged him tighter, rocking back and forth and murmuring quietly to him until Crutchie sniffled and said, “I’se okay now. You can go ta bed.”

Jack smiled crookedly at him. “Would ya mind if I’se moved by you? There’s a draft ova’ there.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t,” Crutchie responded, unable to keep a small smile off his face.

Jack quickly resettled himself in a nest of blankets at Crutchie’s side. “G’night, kid,” he said, reaching out to ruffle Crutchie’s hair.

“‘Night, Jack,” he replied, giggling and half-heartedly trying to dodge Jack’s hand. The gentle hand in his hair felt nice. It reminded him of the big brother he used to imagine for himself, except Jack was real and Crutchie wasn’t alone anymore.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I actually met someone named Jack Kelly the other day, although he's four and looks nothing like Jeremy Jordan. It made me laugh, though.


End file.
